


The Cold of Winter

by birdafterdark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beating, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Frostbite, Javert curses a lot, M/M, Valjean's yellow coat is its own character, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdafterdark/pseuds/birdafterdark
Summary: The snow was coming down thick now, accumulating on his windshield faster than the wipers could remove it, and Javert cursed.Of course Thénardier would choose a day like this to cause chaos.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35
Collections: Valvert Whump Advent 2019





	1. Shocked

**Author's Note:**

> “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?" - John Steinbeck
> 
> A serial story for Valvert Whump Advent 2019, with daily updates for each prompt (if all goes according to plan).

The snow was coming down thick now, accumulating on his windshield faster than the wipers could remove it, and Javert cursed.

Of _course_ Thénardier would choose a day like this to cause chaos. The caller hadn’t actually identified the perp as Thénardier, and citizens were notoriously bad at physical descriptions (“He was white. I think. He had a ski mask on — this weather, you know? — so I can’t be sure. Average height. Average build. He was wearing a black coat. Or maybe it was navy?”), but it fit the man’s M.O.

The caller said a man was loitering in the mall parking lot, slashing the tires of those few people desperate enough to go out in an impending blizzard, then approaching them to offer rides home — for a hefty price. Javert was sure the man had a small coterie of fellow criminals waiting nearby to shuttle the victims home, and probably pick their pockets while they were at it.

He skidded to a stop next to a pile of filthy, sludgy snow outside the Macy’s entrance. The plows were going around the lot about once an hour, keeping it relatively clear for the last-minute Christmas shoppers who were willing to risk white-outs and ice storms to get the season’s hottest toy. Still, a thin, slick layer of snow had accumulated since the last plowing, and as Javert slammed the door of his patrol car shut he realize he hadn’t managed to get even close to parking within a defined space.

“Goddammit,” he muttered. Calhoun, who had somehow managed to steer the police van expertly into a nearby spot, was already laughing at him.

“Fucking typical. You really are the worst driver on the force, Javert.”

He ignored the younger man, instead heading immediately for the mall entrance, where some do-gooders were ringing handbells and soliciting donations for charity.

“Did one of you call the police about criminal activity here?” he called out as soon as he was in earshot, Calhoun jogging behind him.

“I did,” said the young lady. She was wearing a bright red coat and matching hat, her cheeks and nose rosy from the cold. “This jerk slashed my father’s tires, but he wouldn’t let me call for help until he realized the man was doing it to _everyone_. He tried to get us to pay $500 for a ride home with his creepy friend. Can you believe that? And I think people are paying it, too — the ride-sharing services and taxis aren’t running in this weather, so they really don’t have much of a choice.”

The man standing next to her — he looked too old to be her father, Javert thought, but there was no one else around — spoke up before Javert had a chance to get more details from the girl.

“I can answer any questions you gentlemen have,” he said in a soft but firm voice, “but first, could one of you give my daughter a ride home? She shouldn’t be out in this weather much longer.”

The girl opened her mouth to protest, but Calhoun was already replying eagerly. “Oh, yes, we brought a van for just that purpose, sir. Figured there’d be plenty of people needing rides. Though I wasn’t expecting to be chauffeur to such beautiful passengers.”

Javert groaned as the old man said, quite sharply, “Don’t protest, Cosette. Your _HUSBAND_ must be getting worried.”

Calhoun was beet-red as he led the girl away. Javert scowled as he pulled out his notepad, flipping to an empty page. “You know, I would have liked to question your daughter, as she’s the one who called in the report.”

“We both saw the man,” the witness said mildly. Now that Javert had the chance to examine him more closely, he thought he looked a bit familiar. Had he come collecting for his charity at the station, perhaps? If he had, he surely hadn’t been wearing the garish yellow coat he had on now; Javert would have remembered such an offensive garment.

“Well, yes,” he began, rummaging in his pockets for a pencil, “but police procedure is —”

The faint sound of footsteps caused him to break off and turn around rapidly, just in time to see five or six members of Thénardier’s gang approaching with makeshift weapons — a tire iron, a shiv, a giant ceramic candy cane that must have been part of a Christmas display. But where was Thénardier? Javert whirled around, searching for him, he must be here —

And then there was the sharp pain of something cutting into his neck, choking him, and hot breath in his ear.

“I should have known they’d send you, Inspector.”

Fucking great. It was supposed to be a slow day of digging stranded motorists out of snowbanks, and now Thénardier was strangling him with — with _what_? His fingers clawed at his neck, pulling at a cord that was studded with warm glass … Christmas lights? Thénardier was dragging him backward, away from the witness, who was fighting off the hulking Gueulemer and scrawny Babet. Black was creeping in at the corners of his vision when he finally got a good grasp on the strand of lights. As he yanked it down, away from his throat, Javert felt a bulb break underneath his hand. Shards of glass pricked his palm, but he ignored this to focus on his panicked tug-of-war with Thénardier.

It took a particularly violent tug with both of his hands, but Thénardier finally loosened his grip. For the briefest moment, Javert thought he was free — and then he heard another bulb break and suddenly his arms were cramping as electrical current flowed through them, and he couldn’t unclamp his hands, and then his vision began to fade again, and as he felt his body hit the snow he suddenly remembered where he’d seen the man in the yellow coat.

“Motherfucker,” he tried to say, but he wasn’t sure he made any sound at all before everything went black.


	2. Beaten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ceramic candy cane had been broken over Guelemer’s head and Babet was lying in a snow bank, whimpering. Claquesous had vanished into the gray horizon, taking a few other shadowy figures with him. Montparnasse, holding a knife tightly in his left hand, sized his opponent up.

The ceramic candy cane had been broken over Guelemer’s head and Babet was lying in a snow bank, whimpering. Claquesous had vanished into the gray horizon, taking a few other shadowy figures with him. Montparnasse, holding a knife tightly in his left hand, sized his opponent up.

“Try me,” Valjean growled. The attempt to sneer hurt his split lip, and he flinched. It must not have ruined the effect too much, because Montparnasse gave Thénardier a helpless kind of shrug and slinked out sight.

Valjean tightened his grip on the tire iron and turned to Thénardier. The man was standing several feet away, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. The cop still lay unmoving at his feet.

“Half,” the man said matter-of-factly, his dark eyes staring Valjean down from inside the holes of his ski mask.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Give me half of what you’ve made with this little scheme of yours. I did you a favor by taking out this pig.” Here Thénardier nudged Javert’s shoulder with his boot. The man didn’t react. “He’s a keen one, him, he would’ve been onto you. There was no need to attack my friends. But seeing as you did, I propose you give me half o’ the pot and I’ll forget this whole mess.”

“Wh — _this_ pot?” Valjean indicated bright red kettle hanging that was hanging on a chain in the center of a tripod. “This money is for the poor! So they can have Christmas dinner!”

“Cut the crap, Curious George.” Thénardier jerked his head around, eyes darting anxiously across the vast parking lot. “We gotta get out of here before this one’s friends show up. I know you ain’t giving that cash to charity. So, we got a deal?”

Without bothering to reply, Valjean advanced on Thénardier, but the man darted around him like a fox and grabbed the kettle, stand and all. With surprising speed, he made for the spot where Claquesous had disappeared. Valjean’s first instinct was to give chase, but he only took a few steps before slipping on a patch of ice and landing hard on his butt.

By the time he was back on his feet, all he could see was the white snow swirling around him.

He turned around and tried the mall door, but it was locked. Pressing his nose to the glass, he banged with his fist and shouted for help, but was greeted only with the vaguely dystopian atmosphere of a dark, deserted mall. The handful of employees and shoppers that had been there that morning must have left at some point — whether they’d gone home in response so the weather while he was distracted by Thénardier and his gang or they’d locked up in response to the ruckus outside, he couldn’t be sure.

Now that there was no immediate threat to fight, he became achingly aware of his pain. His face was caked with blood from his nose and lip, he was certain at least one of his eyes was blackened, he felt as if somebody had walloped him in the chest, his head was splitting and his tailbone bruised. The cold air shocked his airways as he breathed it in; his nose and ears were numb. He’d spent all morning raising money for the poor, and then he’d lost it to a sleazy con artist. And now he was trapped in a mall parking lot with the lifeless body of the cop who’d put him in jail decades earlier.

The snow was now so heavy that Valjean could barely see his gloved hand held in front of his face. He fished in his pockets for his cell phone.

It was dead.

Beaten, bruised, bloody, utterly defeated, Valjean sank again to the ground and began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure I wanted Valjean to collect for the Salvation Army, but I decided that, since this is *my* alternate universe, it's a universe in which the Salvation Army supports LGBT+ rights. 
> 
> Thénardier calls Valjean "Curious George" because the yellow coat makes him think of the Man in the Yellow Hat.


	3. Shaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Javert became aware of was the jostling. Up and down, up and down, a painful jolt continuously shaking his bones.
> 
> The second thing he became aware of was a lack of feeling in his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swapped days 3 and 4 of the advent prompts for storytelling reasons; the next chapter will be Frostbite.

The first thing Javert became aware of was the jostling. Up and down, up and down, a painful jolt continuously shaking his bones.

The second thing he became aware of was a lack of feeling in his fingers.

He blinked, groggily, only to realize that his face was pressed against some rough, yellow fabric. The faint smell of peppermint mingled with the fresh, cold scent of the freezing air. He still couldn’t feel his fingers, but he took a quick mental assessment of what he _could_ feel:

A painful, scratched-up patch on his cheek where it had rubbed against the coarse yellow fabric.

A prickling, cold sensation in the tip of his nose and the edges of his ears.

Wet, clumpy snowflakes landing on his already damp body.

A slushy moistness under his nostrils, probably thanks to his nose’s embarrassing tendency to run excessively in cold weather.

An aching pain radiating up his arms unlike anything he’d experienced before.

Bruising on his neck and the lingering ghost of a garrote being pulled tight around his throat.

A dull headache.

That infernal, incessant shaking.

A gentle pressure gripping his arm at the elbow and his leg just above the knee.

As his senses slowly returned, he was able to make out a few sounds beyond the howling wind: The crunch of footsteps in snow and heavy breathing, both in time with the jostling.

With horror, Javert realized he was being _carried_.

With something beyond horror, he realized who was carrying him.

“I demand that you put me down at once.”

The footsteps and the jostling stopped. A moment later, Javert was on his feet again, but so unsteady that he had to reach out and grip that damned yellow coat while his vision spun and his legs shook.

“I don’t know where you think you’re taking me, but you should know that my colleagues will be looking for me and they will not my kidnapping by a wanted criminal lightly, I assure you.”

Javert loosened his grip and tried to right himself, but he wasn’t able to bring his vision into focus and stumbled when he tried to take a step away from his captor. Valjean caught his arms before he fell and refused to let go as Javert squirmed in his grasp.

“Please, Inspector,” the other man said, his voice strangely kind, “take it easy. You’re hurt. And I wasn’t kidnapping you, for God’s sake. I was trying to carry you to safety. You were unconscious.”

“Somehow I doubt that, but even so, I am an officer of the law. I am not to be carried around like an invalid.”

Valjean made no reply. They stood in silence for a moment, Javert dizzy and angry, the other man refusing to relinquish his grip, until Javert regained his strength and yanked himself forcefully away. He squinted at the ex-convict. Now that he’d finally resolved the three spinning Valjeans into a singular shape, he could see that the man’s face was harrowing: streaks of frozen blood matting his beard and both his eyes were ringed with angry purple bruises.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“The same thing that happened to you. Patron-Minette.” The man was rubbing his hands together to warm them. “We should get moving. I think there’s a hotel over that way; we could get some shelter there. That’s where I was taking you.”

Javert looked around him. He could only make out the vaguest of gray shapes in snow. He’d heard of whiteout in blizzards, but he’d never actually experienced it. It was like looking out of a plane window into a thick layer of clouds. Utterly featureless.

“You idiot,” he groaned. “Why didn’t you just go to my car? It has a radio. And a heater. And fucking _wheels_.”

Valjean grimaced. “Er. I did think about that.”

“And?”

“Well … it was gone. He must have taken it. Thénardier, I mean — he must have taken the keys from your pocket.”

A surge of anger filled his chest, followed by despair. He tried to reach into his pocket to verify that the keys were gone, but he still could not feel his fingers.

Or, for that matter, his hands.


End file.
